Wednesday, 27 September 2017

The Black Wedding

I hear a lot of bullshit about love.  That it's fleeting, or merely chemical, or wholly illusory.  We hold it up as something sacred, something truly beautiful, yet many of us spend much of our time ignoring, debating or squirming around it's existence.  In this age of cynicism and apathy talk of true love and its kiss are seen by many as cringeworthy, far too earnest and naive. Something for silly teenagers or woolly-headed hippies, or, at best, something for poets to wax lyrical about.  Fuck that noise.  To hell with that imperious, cowardly dismissal of Grace and her divine wisdom.  Whatever else I may be I am a romantic at heart.  I love passionately, without inhibition or apology.

Because I've seen love do amazing things.  Since I was a small child I've been fascinated by love, and love stories.  For me all stories are love stories.  And while romantic love is the jewel in that spiritual crown of mine, it is by no means the only form or power of love.  The deep and often painful love between family and friends, the delightful, unexpected tenderness that can be found between strangers.  Love is physical and spiritual all at once.  For me love is the kiss, the sword, the cross that unites Heaven and Earth.  It is the tangible and intangible working in concert.  It is a force and an outlook and a series of actions, emotions and ruminations that always expands the consciousness of those experiencing its mysteries.  And I've seen it.  I've felt it.  I've held that shimmering star of creation in my palm.  It burned me.  It scarred me, but it made me greater, wiser.  It made me a better man.  I would not still be here without its tempering, empowering grace.  

I don't know about you, but in my world darkness finds a way to invade and sully almost everything, but it cannot slay my love. That innermost radiance is beyond destruction.  Sure, the object of our affections can be taken from us - we can be agonisingly parted from our beloved - but nobody can tell us that radiance isn't real. Like all precious things love can be lost, it's true.  But through the honouring of that love - memory and experience made sacred - it can attain an immortality.  It's this incorruptible immortality that comes to you in the night, kisses your cheek with unbearable sweetness, bids you safe journeys and whispers that you are never alone.  Upon waking we often think such things are mere wish fulfillment, foolish romance.  Your love often smiles at this, knowing the depths of this secret that we try so often to deny, lonely but bashful in our innocence.  We can be broken, we can be damaged, we can be toxic and spiteful and raging.  But love saves us.  Love tells us that we are not reducible to a mere cliche, or a quirk of biochemistry, or a brief and meaningless swirl of carbon and starlight.  We are connected to the source, always.  So yes, love is dangerous and transformative.  It threads subject to object and nucleus to star.  It traverses veils and boundaries. Love is necromantic.  It can liberate the enslaved.  It can bring the dead to life.  And here, now, at this time, we are in need of the passions and wisdom of the dead, of those who still recall love's flame. Till death do us part, my beloved.  And even then, eventide presents no obstacle.  For in this marriage we find each other always, and ourselves.  Now, and Evermore.